Quenta Nárion
by Silmfics Mailing List
Summary: REWRITING THE SILMARILLION: A Tale of Fires. What if Feanor had not died? What if his wife had joined him in Middle-earth? Could they unify the Elves against the forces of Darkness and avert the Doom of the Noldor? NEW chapter up. Attention: AU
1. Authors' Note

Quenta N‡rion Authors' Note 

We, the members of the Silmfics yahoo group, which is a group for writers of fanfic based on the Silmarillion, are pleased to present you with "Quenta N‡rion". This story is our shared project, a round robin. It is AU, supposing that Feanor lived instead of died in the first battle on Middle Earth. Therefore, do not expect changes from the canon dating before that time. Do, however, expect us to treat as canon some versions of the events as told in the History of Middle Earth series. 

The name of the author of each particular chapter will appear at the bottom of each chapter. Links to their fanfiction.net accounts are under the "favorite authors" section of our profile. 

This story is still ongoing, so that means you - yes, *you* - can come to the Silmfics group and contribute to it. Or you can just come and do other things, or come and lurk. We're at groups.yahoo.com/group/Silmfics 

All feedback is welcomed. Please do not archive without permission. 

And now on to the story... 

- The Silmfics Mailing List 


	2. Chapter 1: Ashes

Quenta N‡rion Chapter One 

** Prologue **

************** 

_ Then the sons bore their father to return him to Mithrim, and they had thought his hour was come, for grievous were his wounds, and they feared the wrath and vengeance of the Valar. Yet they knew not that Morgoth Bauglir had ordered Feanor not slain, albeit weakened greatly, for he thought in his black heart, and laughed at the thought, that he would be more a curse to his people alive than dead. _

Thus Feanor did not die; bright and strong burned the fire in him, and still he had not seen his vengeance, and was loath yet to leave Arda for its beauty and vast realms. Slowly his strength returned and his body mended; but he lay long broken and nigh onto death, and the Noldor saw the weakness of the greatest among them, and fear and dissent spread in their lines... 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

"Cravens, bootlickers and fools, the whole lot of them," Caranthir snarled as he threw aside the flank of the tent and strode in, still in his full mail and wielding a long sword. Five brothers looked up at him with weary eyes, devoid of much caring, from their places scattered on the floor, and when they did not answer, he sighed and cast aside his weapon, dropping to join them. The large space was deathly silent, save for the clanking of metal and the quiet, constant but uneven sound of heavy breath. "You'd think Father would choose his allies with more care." 

Curufin, who sat holding his knees to his chest and head in his hands, stirred and looked up. "Speak not ill of the dead," he muttered. 

"The dead..." Caranthir answered in the way of mocking, but the other Elves froze. Five pairs of eyes, empty, desperate eyes, shifted across the tent in silence, as no words were needed between them. One corner they furnished with all manners of cloaks and furs and fabrics they had, and there, the High King of the Noldor, Curufinwe Feanaro, was quietly struggling to breathe. 

"He does not seem very inclined towards dying," Maedhros commented dryly, and Maglor laughed. 

"He would not die," he darkly whispered; his eyes held a strange burning, even upon his brothers. "There lives none in Arda that can slay him. Not only will he live, but he will fight on this hopeless war until he damns his own inextinguishable flame, and we would all damn it with him." 

There was a long pause; a silence fell upon the six, as if all their words were lost with their father, a silence of those who must learn to speak on their own. Perhaps it would have been easier if they knew he would not wake, that they would bear their own mistakes and be prone to no judgement. Yet he would live -if he lived - how could they do ought else but wait? 

Caranthir moved uncomfortably on the sandy floor, as if wanting to speak but daring not. His dark eyes nailed Maglor in the silence. 

"You and your talks of damnation," he muttered bitterly. 

Maglor nodded slowly. "And IÕm not the only one, am I?" He glanced at his fatherÕs unmoving form and shrugged. "Blood and darkness. Half our people would have him dead." 

"They would not dare," Maedhros snarled. This time it was Caranthir's turn to laugh. 

"You think they won't, brother mine? When have you last been outside? Or maybe you were wiser to remain here as guard." He shook his head and leaned back, perhaps in an attempt to relax, then added matter-a-factly, "we have received some honored guests." 

Questioning looks passed between the brothers. "Such as?" 

"The Black Foe sent some lapdogs to pretend to negotiate with us. They say they desire peace, would give a Jewel to have it. I would not trust them to clean my boots," he shrugged, "but most are rather persistently not with me on that. Damned if we do and all the rest." 

"A Jewel," Curufin whispered reverently. Another round of hesitant glances went FeanorÕs way. 

"Would you speak with them, Maitimo?" 

It was not that Maedhros did not expect to be put in this position - if only for the time being. It did not prove any easier, nothing proved easy. Father, he thought to himself, detecting to hint of despair in the plea, please live, for I cannot do this... 

"No," he said at last, painfully conscious of all their eyes upon him. Curufin and Amras looked shocked, Caranthir and Celegorm gave pleased smiles. Maglor alone did not react, did not seem to be aware of the discussion at all. "No, I will not. When Father wakes, he would decide. Until then, we simply wait." 

"Wait!" Curufin snorted, but Maedhros paid him no mind at all. Darkness was slowly falling, and the brothers retreated to rest. Only he remained at their father's bedside, unable to even consider being anywhere else. 

Had they really come to Middle Earth to find freedom? 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

_ Thus it was that Maedhros son of Feanor did not converse with Morgoth. And perhaps good fortune was that, as later whispers came to Mithrim that but vile pretense was the offer of peace, a snare to capture and bear him away to torment in the darkness of Angband. Indeed the seven waited in idleness for their father to wake and live and give them guidance in the strange new land. _

And Feanor lay long in dark fever dreams; and in dreams came to him the memories of Tirion that he loved, and those friends and kin left behind, and perhaps it was so that his heart was somehow changed by those... 

************** 

By:Ê Joan Milligan 


	3. Chapter 2: From the West to the Utmost E...

Quenta Nárion Chapter 2  
  
  
  
The swanships came up the Firth of Drengist as ghosts on the dark, starlit waters. Panic erupted among the followers of Feanor. The sons of Feanor tried to calm the people, but it was not an easy task. Many of the Noldor believed the swanships to be the ghosts of the slain Teleri who had traveled on the ships that they'd burned to seek revenge. Maedhros sent Celegorm and Curufin out to investigate. They rode with great speed to the Firth of Drengist and returned just as quickly.  
  
"The waters are dark and distinctly uninviting," Celegorm reported. "The tears of Uinen that drowned some of our ships was but a small display of what the Noldor shall endure if we venture out to the Sea."  
  
"Wonderful." Caranthir laughed.  
  
"What of the swanships?" Maedhros asked.  
  
"They are not those of the Teleri," Curufin said. "The light is dim and there are no lamplights as there were in Alqualonde, but still we were clearly able to see that these ships are different in design. I spoke with some of the native Elves of the shore, and they told me that they are the ships of Cirdan the Shipwright, kinsman of Elwe and Olwe."  
  
"Is it possible that he has heard the news of the Kinslaying?" Amras asked. "Do you think he comes to seek revenge?"  
  
"Nay, Ambarussa," Curufin said. "There is no way for them to so quickly hear this news. Those Falathrim with whom I spoke knew nothing of the Noldor, but they recognized Tyelkormo and myself to be different from themselves. They did not inquire further, but in our eyes, they can see our greater power and wisdom."  
  
"I think then that it would be best to meet these swanships and their leader," Maedhros said. "I do not trust any others to watch over our father. Ambarussa will both stay behind to guard our father."  
  
"Both," Maglor repeated softly.  
  
Maedhros coughed lightly. "Sorry. Telvo will stay with father. The rest of you will come with me. I want to put on a display of strength for our long sundered kinsmen. Macalaure and Curvo will act as translators."  
  
"I have only had time to study the language of the Northern Elves," Maglor said. "Father had noted that the Northern and Western Elves speak different dialects. I don't know how helpful I'll be."  
  
"It's easy," Curufin said. "I've not studied the Western language much either, but the Falathrim speak a more arcane form of Sindarin. It is no more difficult than studying text of ancient Quendi." He looked to all his brothers. "I will teach you some basic speech of the Falathrim. Russandol, I suggest we begin by changing our names to Sindarin form."  
  
"Very well then. When will the ships of Cirdan be here?"  
  
"How are we to know?" Celegorm snapped. "Without the waxing and waning of the Two Trees, there is no way to tell time."  
  
Curufin hushed his older brother. "I estimate two days, if time still moved forward as it did before."  
  
In those two days, the sons of Feanor prepared to meet Cirdan and the Falathrim. The swanships arrived soon enough, and the sons of Feanor rode forth from Mithrim to meet them at the Firth. The Falathrim had not expected to be met at the Firth and were impressed by the knowledge of their great kin. They held a feast at Cirith Ninniach.  
  
"I am afraid that I cannot stay long, for my Havens of the Falas are in ruin. Your timely arrival drew off the army of Orcs that had been assaulting my lands, and so I have come to thank you. Please accept these treasures as thanks and as a sign of our friendship, King of the Noldor." Cirdan's servants brought forth urns of phosphorous pearls, white and pink and black spheres of the Sea. The sons of Feanor looked to the pearls and remembered the pearls that decorated the harbors of Alqualonde. How was it that the Teleri and the Eglath were so similar? Though they were not ghosts, the very presence of the Falathrim seemed to be a scolding for the Noldor. Fortunately, those who had come with the sons of Feanor were strong and loyal. They did not show any signs of their discomfort, though the shadow of the Kinslaying haunted them all.  
  
"I am not the King of the Noldor. I am Prince Maedhros, grandson of Finwe and son of Feanor, High King of the Noldor." Maedhros used the names that Curufin had hastily devised.  
  
"Ah, my apologies." Cirdan bowed. "I saw in your eyes the great presence of Finwe and assumed too much. So then Finwe has abdicated in favor of his son? How is Finwe? He and I were friends of old." The sons of Feanor shifted but retained their composure.  
  
"King Finwe was slain by the Dark Shadow before he fled Valinor to trouble these lands," Maedhros said. "It is for this reason that we have come forth from the Blessed Realm to assail Morgoth, the Black Foe of the World."  
  
After Curufin had translated Maedhros's words, Cirdan sat silent with head bowed for several moments. At last, he sighed and said, "If that is the case, then I will aid your cause in any way I can. I am afraid the Falathrim cannot be of much assistance right now. We are ourselves recovering from the attack of the armies of Morgoth, as I've said before. But if there is anything else we can do to help, please do not hesitate to ask. In addition to the gift of pearls, please allow me to give you some water from my fountains in Eglarest. The water is clean and clear, and Lord Ulmo has blessed the water. Many of my people were wounded in the battle against the Orcs, and our healing craft has improved with time, but the plants that the healers use are second to the waters of Ulmo, which we use sparingly and only in dire need." He looked at Maedhros with his bright eyes, and Maedhros wondered how a Dark Elf could have beheld such light. "Do I not perceive correctly that King Feanor must be wounded? For if he was not, would he not greet me himself?"  
  
"He would if the thought you worth his time," Caranthir said. The guilt and discomfort of dealing with one so closely akin to the Teleri of Alqualonde had made Caranthir edgy. Maedhros gave his brother a stern look, and Caranthir quieted. Curufin did not translate his brother's comment.  
  
"You are correct. My father is not feeling well," Maedhros said.  
  
"Then I hope this will help." Cirdan drew forth a flask and handed it to Maedhros. "A drop of the water on his lips will awaken him, and then allow him to drink as much as he needs. The water can also be applied directly to a wound."  
  
Maedhros thanked him and accepted the flask eagerly. Nothing else had brought Feanor out of his coma. The sons of Feanor were ready to try any potential remedy. Maedhros and Cirdan conversed for some time more, but the conversation was still difficult. When Curufin tired of translating, Maglor took over. Even then, they were sometimes at a loss for words, and communication was slow. Maedhros asked if Cirdan would like to travel with them back to Mithrim, and much to his relief, Cirdan refused, for he was needed back at Eglarest and Brithombar, the main towns of the Falas. After the feast at Cirith Ninniach, the sons of Feanor returned to Mithrim. Their father was still tenaciously holding onto life, but Amras reported that he had not stirred or awakened since their departure.  
  
Celegorm was the most skilled at healing, for though he hunted, he also had much experience tending to wounded animals and caring for his own pets. He dripped a single drop of the Water of Ulmo onto the lips of Feanor as his brothers watched in anticipation. The drop of water slipped between Feanor's lips into his mouth, but the Spirit of Fire did not stir. Celegorm wetted a cloth with the water and carefully wiped the places where the fires of the Balrogs had most wounded Feanor. He wetted the cloth again only when necessary. The burn marks wiped away as if they had only been ink on skin. Celegorm instructed Curufin to aid him, and together, they carefully propped Feanor upright. Celegorm poured a small amount of the water into Feanor's mouth and allowed none to drip by accident from the flask or from Feanor's lips. Their father swallowed. He drank again. And he drank a third time. Then his eyes flared open, and the fire in his bright eyes was so great that his sons drew away.  
  
Feanor lived! Since his torment upon the brink of death and striving in the mind with Morgoth, Feanor's spirit burned like a red fire within, and he was as one that returns from the dead.  
  
At that very moment, Fingolfin let blow his silver trumpets and began his march into Middle Earth. Isil rose into the realm of the stars, and the world had moonlight for the first time since the Lamps had been overthrown.  
  
Morgoth saw the new light and how it frightened the Orcs, who had already been badly defeated by the Noldor and would have been utterly destroyed if not for the Balrogs. He heard the clear trumpets of the host of Fingolfin and saw their long and black shadows stretch out over the lands. And he felt the Spirit of Fire awaken and curse his name, and he realized overly late that he should not have allowed Feanor to live. Morgoth saw that his designs had got astray, and then, although he was the greatest of beings upon the world, Morgoth alone of the Valar knew fear.  
  
  
  
By: Cirdan 


	4. Chapter 3: A Meeting on the Helcaraxe

The tears of Nienna were not enough to heal the marring of the trees, but still she wept, and wept more with all the news her brother Mandos brought her from his nearby halls.

//Weep for the loss of the Teleri, and the fall of the Noldor. Weep for Alqualonde in flames, and my halls filled with the lords of the swanships.//

//Weep for Feanor turned to evil. Weep for those that burned their ships and left their kin to live of die in the dark wastes.//

Nienna wept for the souls in the Halls of Mandos, the voices that called for her pity.

//Weep for the fates thwarted, when Feanor refused the death that was decreed for him. The doom of death lies over him, and yet he does not die. Surely he will, for so the patterns have decreed..//

//Weep for Nerdanel, once called the wise, who felt through the strength of their soul-bond the heartbeat of her still-living husband. For she has renounced her Elven foresight, calling it a work of lies, and sworn to take to the Helcaraxe to follow Feanor, alone if need be. But she will not go alone. Weep for those who follow her, Vanyar as well as Noldor, women and men, who believe now their premonitions of death to be falsehood, and curse the wisdom they now name cowardice. Yet death will surely find them, for the tapestries do not lie.//

Nienna's weeping slowed at the last, and for a moment broke into a strange sound. Then she wept once more. Mandos wondered at the sound she had made. If it had come from another, he might have thought it a laugh.

*

The host of Fingolfin felt the pursuers before they saw them. The ice shook with beating hooves in the distance. Fingolfin ordered the pace to be increased, although in truth his hungry, exhausted, shivering followers could scarcely move at all, let alone any faster than they were. Still, he had the drummers beat a rhythm, and he called to Fingon and Finrod to keep everyone moving as quickly as they could. He did not know if those who followed were the faithful of the Valar come to force their kin to return, or Teleri survivors come to wreak vengeance, but he feared the worst.

At last, the pursuers could not be evaded. Fingolfin called together his children and his brother's and bid them organize the camp. "There must be no second kinslaying," he ordered them. "Resist them if you must, but do not slay them, even if I am slain."

"You will not fall unless we all are slain first," Aredhel said hotly.

Fingolfin shook his head. "I am going to them now. I am not innocent of fault in the events which brought us here. Do not follow me," he added pointedly as Fingon jumped up. "If there is hope of peace I will seek it, and if not perhaps those who pursue the Noldor will be content with the death of their king."

Finrod and Fingon looked to each other, and nodded as one. They knew that if Fingolfin were to fall, it would remain their lot to lead their people into whatever destiny would take them. The rest of the company did not speak. 

"Let there be no second kinslaying," Fingolfin said again. A command, or a prayer.

As the pursuers approached, Fingolfin could discern the shape of furred, horned animals, bred to survive the harsh cold. Behind them they drew carts and wagons filled with supplies. Whoever pursued them had thought out their plan, not coming reckless like those they followed onto the Ice. Fingolfin stood alone, and waited.

The leader of the pursuers was wrapped in garments of fur, and it was not until the animals and carts were almost upon him that Fingolfin recognized her, and his fear dissolved into surprise. "Nerdanel!" he shouted. This was more unlooked for than any vengeance, that Feanor's wife should follow them. Had she not declared their mission fruitless, and Feanor doomed to death? Was she the emissary of the Valar's judgement?

Nerdanel dismounted. "Hail, brother!" she shouted.

Fingolfin smiled at the clever way Nerdanel had avoided choosing whether or not to hail him as king, and responded in kind. "Hail, sister. Do you come to bid us return? For I tell you we will not, neither I nor my people."

"It is not for that that I have come," Nerdanel said, but to join my host to yours, and to bring you succor." Behind her Fingolfin could see faces that he recognized, friends and wives and husbands of those who had chosen to follow him.

"Feanor lives," Nerdanel said, before Fingolfin could ask further. "Feanor lives, who ought to have died. Therefore, our foresight is false, or is a name we have given to our fear." He voice ached with regret and fury. Their eyes met, and Fingolfin saw in his brother's wife a pain he knew only too well. "We will follow Feanor, as you have, to give him aid in his fight."

"Is that why I have come to this?" Fingolfin asked bitterly. "I thought it was to escape the punishment of the Valar, or to exile myself for my sins."

Nerdanel put her hand on Fingolfin's shoulder. "We have all sinned, and who is to say whose sins are the greatest? Let us go on together."

They returned to Fingolfin's camp. Nerdanel's followers all removed their hoods so their faces could be clearly seen. A great shout came from the camp, as the exiles saw friends they believed lost to them forever. Elenwe shrieked to see her friend Amarie, and ran to embrace her, looking more alive than she had been since the crossing began. Finrod did not move, but his eyes shone with the light of the trees.

"Is Anaire with you?" Fingolfin asked belatedly.

Nerdanel shook her head. "Anaire remains with Finarfin and Earwen in Valinor."

Fingolfin had not really suspected otherwise. When he had departed, Anaire had said that she would ask the Valar to sever their bond. He still felt their bond, dimly, but it was a faded touch that brought him no comfort. He silently bid her farewell, and wished her joy.

Nerdanel and her companions had brought in their carts food, wood for fires, warm clothes, even shoes and medicines. Fingolfin watched his people regain hope, as what had seemed a hopeless crossing suddenly seemed at the edge of possibility. He had expected that the prophesy would be fulfilled, that he would enter Beleriand to find his hated and beloved brother dead, and find for himself only ruin. Now it seemed like anything was possible, like the curse that had been uttered was truly no more than words.

"If Feanor can live," he whispered, "so can I."

Nerdanel heard him, and smiled. 

*****

by Deborah (archion@planet-save.com)


	5. Chapter 4: A Dish Best Served Cold

Turgon woke with a start, realising he had been dreaming again while on his feet. Always a dangerous thing to do, but never more so than on the Ice. It could have been his death; he could have fallen into a crevice, or stepped onto one of the fatal thin spots, but as it was he had merely stumbled from fatigue. 

_I am not meant to die here_, he thought. _My task is not finished, and I will be allowed to live until it is._

He had dreamed that dream before, though this time it had been longer than ever, and more vivid. Feanor's wife Nerdanel had come, with many of those who had refused to leave Tirion, and even some of those who had returned with Finarfin. They had brought supplies, and warm furs, and above all, joy. For Elenwë had been with them, impossibly, but alive and well, and never more lovely and desirable. In his dream he had opened his arms and she had jumped from the cart she was traveling on, to hurry towards him with eyes that shone like the stars in her name.

But before they could even touch he woke up to the realisation that Elenwë was dead. All else was true. Nerdanel had indeed come with a large company, to bring succour and the happiness of reunion, and even the keen disappointment of Fingolfin and his children at the absence of Anairë was blunted by the joy of so many others. It was Fingolfin himself who suggested that, perhaps, the curse of Mandos was no more than words, and Turgon was among those who nodded.

Too soon, he discovered that at least some Valar do speak truly, and that their dooms are prophecies as well as judgments. Why had they decided to walk, in that fateful hour? He would never forget the loud crack when the ice broke under the feet of Elenwë and young Idril. Nor would he forget the cruel pain stabbing through his body when he cast himself into the cold sea in an attempt to save them. Afterwards, he had felt horribly guilty for being able to rescue only one of them and choosing his child, even though he knew Elenwë would have made the same choice. 

The guilt was slowly replaced by another, insistent voice telling him that the real blame lay elsewhere. The dream remained a dream. There had been and would be no cart to bring Elenwë back to him, and even if she were granted life in Valinor, she would be out of reach. For he was exiled and cursed. And so, Turgon trudged on, more grimly than ever. 

It was not long afterwards that the whispers began 

At last, he could believe the rumour was true: that the end of the Helcaraxë was within sight. That it was not just more Ice deceiving their eyes with a promise of sturdy rocks or soft turf. It had too often done so during this horrible walk across a waste that was not merely a waste of lives but a waste of life itself. But this time, he did not hear the dissenting voices of those who warned that it was just a ray from one of the lamps or a glimmer of false hope playing tricks on them. And the voice crying 'Land!' was that of Fingolfin, who would never raise it without reason. 

So the nightmare was almost over. Or so it was for many of them, but not for all, not for those who had lost too much, like he had. And all around them, it was still night. 

Aredhel had been carrying Idril for the last few miles. More than a few, in fact, as he realised when he looked up and saw how much the stars had shifted. So he held out his arms, not wasting breath on speech for all they were Speakers, and took his daughter from her.

He thought she was asleep, but presently he heard her ask: 'Are we nearly there, then, father?'

'Yes,' he said, and as speaking to his child would never be a waste of breath he added: 'Over there, far ahead, past your grandfather's staff - that looks like a copse of trees. See?' And while he said it, he realised it was so. 

She was silent for a while, but suddenly she asked: 'So what will you do when we get there?' 

Idril was a remarkable child, wiser than her years, and obviously seeing more clearly. Any other child would have asked: 'What will _we_ do?' What did she discern in him now?

'Fight the Enemy,' Turgon replied. 'Take revenge.' Beside him, he felt his sister turning her head towards him; she must have heard what he did not say. 

They walked on, the land ahead becoming more clearly visible; rocks, bushes, trees. Bleak it seemed, but they were far north, and anything was better than the Ice. Then came the moment when his father let the trumpets sing to signal that his feet touched ground.

When the sound faded away, a profound silence descended upon all of them. All Arda seemed to hold its breath, for the wind decreased and died, and even the Ice behind them was muted; it stopped grinding and groaning and ringing ominously below their feet. Then, behind the rocks and the bushes and the trees a light rose that was neither star nor lamp nor a glimmer of false hope. It was round as a globe of fruit, silvery white as the light of Telperion and eerily beautiful.

The silence was broken by a swelling buzz breaking into song. Undoubtedly this was a sign that the Valar had not completely abandoned them. But Turgon knew that if it was a sign, it resembled a two-edged blade more than anything, for there were two sides to it. This new light was dim, compared to the radiance of the murdered Trees, and fickle, and its surface was marred as Arda.

When Isil, as the Noldor were calling the light, had described an arc though the sky and began to descend, they made their camp. After Turgon had put up their tent and Idril had softly sung herself to sleep, he and Aredhel sat down on surface whose chill seemed almost friendly after the Ice. 

He took out his weapons, sword and daggers and bow, to inspect them under the face of Isil and whet them, if necessary. For a while, neither of them spoke, Aredhel watching him intently. He knew he had an ally in her, betrayed as she felt by Fëanor and his sons, and above all by Celegorm. But it would be best if some things were not mentioned aloud. 

Finally, she said: 'You have set yourself a hard task, and you may be dooming yourself to death and darkness.'

'I know,' he replied. 'But you shall be as a mother to Idril if I should fail and fall.'

She smiled briefly, and without joy. 'When will you go?'

'As soon as we find out their whereabouts. Which will be soon enough. Father is as eager to confront them as any of us and has already sent out scouts. Nor do I think they will avoid us, knowing Feanor.'

Aredhel nodded. 'I think I will go and rest now.' 

'Do so. I will join you shortly' Turgon picked up his sword, running a finger along the edge. Though a dagger was much easier to conceal, this was the weapon he would prefer to use when he killed the enemy called Feanor.

__

By: Finch


	6. Chapter 5: Blue and Silver

I am the master of my fate  
  
  
  
  
  
I am the captain of my soul  
  
William Earnest Henley / Invictus  
  
  
  
Was it already morning? Already?  
  
He really could not tell. there was no light left in the world at all. Nothing. Not the Trees, not the stars, it was gone, all gone, blood and darkness.  
  
But no, it was morning. It had to be, time to wake, to rise, to live. Feanor felt it as he opened tightly shut eyes; he had been sleeping like a child.  
  
Grunting as he did for yet remaining pain and heavy weariness nothing seemed to banish, he slowly lifted himself up to a sitting position with the care pain taught him. In Aman, he remembered, in Aman, pain was nothing, physical at least. Now he hurt without as he did within.  
  
None of his sons was in the tent, though he could feel their presence nearby. As always. They had not left his sight once since he woke, and they did not tell him why.  
  
Faint reddish light was penetrating the tent. Strange, not light of fire.  
  
Feanor shrugged at it. No light mattered.  
  
He stood slowly and began the laboring, painful task of dressing, cursing fluently at it all. Vast realms! Glorious war! The Spirit of Fire barely able to lace his own damn leggings.  
  
Nerdanel would have laughed. Nerdanel. . .  
  
Asking for help obviously would have been too humilliating, and he took humilliation enough, so it hurt, but he managed to pull on his clothes and even tie up his long tangled hair. Then he grimly wrapped and immobilized the the right arm that the Balrogs - intentionally, he knew - severed five inches above the wrist.  
  
Now at least in a semblance of order, he drew back the flank of the tent and gazed outside, and his eyes grew wide with shock. The sky was in a dozen shades of red and blue and purple, white light shining from the west. As if someone torched the sky, the stars burning away, and the surface of the lake Mithrim alight with dancing sparkles on the water. It made him want to sing, it made him want to capture it, treasure it, make it eternal.  
  
And he could not, never again.  
  
A voice startled him. "You should not have risen, Atarinya."  
  
His eyes narrowed as he gazed to the voice's origin, and he snapped sharply. "I would walk as I please. Don't patronize me."  
  
Curufin lowered his eyes, and his father at once regretted speaking so harshly. But they had to know, they all had to know, that he was no less a Quendi, a Noldo or himself, even like this.  
  
He looked back to the shimmering sky until Curufin regained his courage and spoke again.  
  
"Father, we've recevied news. the Gray Elves say a great host of Eldar appeared of West, and march now toward the gates of Angamando; blue and silver are their standards."  
  
It took a few long minutes for the words to register - and once they did, Feanor nearly stumbled, struck by shock as if by a physical force. Long he stood rooted to the ground, then spun and stared at the distance, at the west.  
  
"Blue and silver." he whispered, and his voice slowly descended into bitterness. "Blue and silver. could he? Could my useless brother have crossed the Helcaraxe.?"  
  
Curufin visibly blinked. "Nolofinwe? Surely not!"  
  
"Oh, surely yes!" Louder he spoke now, and stood straighter, and a semblance of the old fire seemed returned to him, the fire that reaped through the hordes of the Orcs. "Even here he must hunt me! I will not stand for it. Ready now our men, do it! If Nolofinwe comes to Beleriand, he would find me before the gates of the Black Foe!"  
  
  
  
By Joan Milligan 


	7. Chapter 6: What Further Harm

Chapter 6

[A/N : I'm such a greedy little brat, writing on this plotline. I tried not to do it. But I couldn't help it, the plotbunny was getting so frustrated with me it was becoming fey! I know in a previous chapter someone had Feanor's people change their names to their Sindarin forms but I assume they wouldn't be used to using it among eachother yet. Well, anyway, enjoy. ]

***

Turgon watched as the exiles mingled with the new host from Valinor, as they laughed and sang and shouted with a joy he could not share.

What said that foresight was wrong? Could not death still come in many forms? And could not Feanor yet be killed, yes killed, his blood washing Turgon's sword in payment for Elenwe's demise?

His father could not ask those who were reunited with love ones thought forever lost, those whose faces now sparkled with new hope and the new light of the sun, to renew the blood of the kinslaying. Yet it must be done. And so, this job was for him, for his kind. Who had lost too much already to be anything but cursed.

He cared not what Nerdanel's explanations were, she was wrong. There was a doom upon them, a doom that had found them, found screaming children and mothers and men, found Elenwe upon the ice. Because if the dooms of Mandos were nothing, what then of his justice? And Turgon had to believe in justice.

He would never again find happiness. And until Feanor was dead, he would never find peace. But at least, when the wave of his rage at last extinguished the Spirit of Fire, then he would have that peace, that lonely peace of satisfied justice.

He felt his brother and sister come before him, perhaps to speak. Had it been only Aredhel he might not have moved, for though she was slim comfort there was no one else to give him even that much, and it was easy enough just to stand beside her. But for Fingon he must needs erect his mask, he must pretend to an acceptance he did not feel, lest his perceptive older brother find him out and try to stop him.

Fingon asked, "When will you be leaving?"

Turgon turned to Aredhel. "Why did you - "

"I told him nothing that he did not already know. He saw your hatred and came to me, and demanded to know your plan."

Turgon turned back to his brother. "What is it you wish to tell me, Findekano? I know the reasons you will give, and I have let them torment me, but I will not let them stop me! Well, what is it you have to say? That my plan is foolishness, madness, that if I hold my peace for yet a little while everything will be all right? That if I die I may join Elenwe but I will abandon Idril? That if I slay my kin I am no better than the kinslayers?" Turgon stopped, aghast, realizing that his brother was one of those few survivors of the Helcaraxe who could also claim that burden. But Fingon took no offense, only smiled thinly.

"You mistake me, Turkano. I do not wish to stop you. I am coming with you."

Turgon gaped at the cold look in his brother's eyes. When he could think beyond his pain he hoped his brother was among the happy exiles, enjoying the company of Nerdanel's host, but why should his brother feel any less betrayed then Aredhel, who too was let in on his plan?

Still, the foreboding that his people had renounced hung heavily upon his brow. "Two will be noticed missing," he replied, scrambling for an excuse.

"After the ice, the smallest elfling will be missed if he's gone. Aredhel can lie for me as easily as she can for you, and I will not let you go alone."

"And why not?" Turgon said angrily. "This is not your fight!"

Fingon did not reply, merely gazed at him sorrowfully, and Turgon realized that to his wise elder brother his thoughts were clearer than to his young sister. This was not merely an assasination, it was a suicide mission - oh, Eru, how Turgon wanted to be pierced by the thousand angry swords of Feanor's guards! But he would be much more careful not to drag Fingon in, and change his plans to include a way of escape.

Turgon's smile of thanks was more like a grimace, and his words of acceptance were more out of admiration for his brother's manipulations than out of gladness for his coming.

A few days later, now easily marked by the rising and setting of the sun, they approached the outskirts of Feanor's hosts. They rode slowly and carefully lest they be spotted. Many arguments they had had along the way, Fingon reasoning for their return to safety when it was past the point that one could go alone. Also Fingon had produced a dagger and a bow. "Curse your stubborn pride, Turkano," he had said. "You don't know which one you'll need. You don't know how close you will get!"

But they were getting closer.

***

Blue and silver, the colors of water and ice. Undoubtably tired, yes, hurt and weary they still pushed on. What moved them? Vengeance?

Maedhros stared out at the western horizon as though in a trance. One hand shielded his eyes from the setting sun so he could look for the uncoming guard without squinting. He cared not for whatever beauty was in the great burning globe, his thoughts were in too much turmoil.

Beside him, Maglor let his gaze take in the whole scene, the many overlapping colors transferred from art and dream to the very sky, the shadows of gulls and vultures and lesser eagles fast across it, and the way that even as the night neared and chill overcame them they gleaned still some warmth from its rays.

Basking in that, Maglor said, "There should be a song about this."

Startled out of his broodings, although in truth the two had walked up to this tiny precipice together and he knew well who was by his side, Maedhros merely said, "Isn't there?" 'You have a song for everything, Cano' he remembered himself saying while they still played in Valinor.

Maglor laughed soflty, which was an odd sound on such a day. Even as their host neared Angband in a mad race of pride, even as Fingolfin's host followed ever closely without once sending elves out to parley, even as the air grew fouler and the hills more lifeless around them, he had yet retained his humor. Maedhros felt as though something vital had been taken from his brother, and he did not know how, or why, only knew that it made him speak darkly when times called for hope and and speak with laughter when times called for solemnity or fear.

"Why do you laugh?" he asked at length. "Why do you think these oncoming hosts are beautiful? These hosts of revenge, of guilt, of rapproachment?"

Maglor merely glanced at him sideways. "Don't you think them so?"

"What mean you?" Maedhros asked sharply. "Why should I think them beautiful?"

"I mean you were always the closest to Nolofinwe's house, Maitimo. Always closest to Nolofinwe's eldest. Do you not rejoice to see them coming? Are you not glad that they survived the ice?"

"I had thought them safe in Aman!" Maedhros replied, tearing his eyes from the view and regarding his brother with little caution. "Why should it make me happy that they have been dealt cold and bitterness by our hands? And why should Findekano be happy to see me? Perhaps if I had suffered as he had, it would make my betrayal less sharp - "

"I was there, Maitimo. I saw you stand aside, and wished I had the strength to join you."

"He will not know that. What chance has he to ever learn? And now we go racing off into darkness, into foul Angband..." he trailed off, picked up on the end of Maglor's statement. "What mean you, you had not the strength?"

"I will fight on father's orders, and sing at his command, but I - I simply do not care enough to do otherwise..." Maglor sighed. "That the hosts approaching carry only my enemies and not my wife from Valinor - it is but a little painful reminder."

"And yet you can call this vista beautiful?" Maedhros replied. "And yet you can make magic with your voice? Behind your listlessness you are stronger than you think."

"It does not take strength to be decorative," Maglor murmured.

"Nor strength to speak of treason," came a harsh voice from behind them. Feanor.

Maglor's face was ashen, Maedhros could only think - it's too soon for him to be up! Yet the anger on his father's face made him seem back to full health and stature, and that anger was directed at them.

Meanwhile, Fingon and Turgon had ridden as close as they could to the temporary camp and then tied their horses down, both hoping that whatever happened would be over tonight, so they did not have to leave the beautiful beasts alone in this dark place. Then they crept in hidden silence through the camp until they had spotted Feanor and his eldest sons arguing high upon a precipice.

Turgon had out his weapons, was muttering, "They will find us here soon, and I cannot reach him with a sword. But the sword, the sword is the way to fight! It is the man's way - and yet is Feanor a man? Perhaps it is better for him to be killed like an animal..." he turned and began to fit his bow.

But Fingon was hearing Feanor's words. "You, who defied me at Losgar, now do you try to turn your brother against me? And you, Maglor, you wished to be like him? You wish you could have betrayed your father for one of - " his lip curled in a sneer " - Fingolfin's sons?"

Those words were shouted louder than the rest, and with such contempt, that Turgon looked up from where he had been readying himself, his intense concentration shattered.

This, as well as rage, made his arms unsteady as he fitted the deadly arrow, and Fingon at last released from the shock of Feanor's words fumbled at his brother to stop him. He needed - he needed time to think this out - there was dissension among the highest ranks and Maedhros, oh Maedhros had -

Turgon pulled away and released his shot.

When the shaft was let fly, it sailed past Feanor as though the elf was charmed instead of cursed, and struck his unlucky son in the chest. Maedhros spun, stunned, and fell off the edge of the precipice.

Maglor grabbed at him but was too far away, and Feanor reached out with his severed hand, not remembering until too late that it was useless. In desperation he flung himself down on the cruel stones, and at last caught Maedhros' arm. His fingers were like clasps of iron - through pure strength of will he held on to his largest, heaviest son. But he was still weak from sickness and could not lift him, so Maedhros dangled, unconcious, blood flowing from the wound in his side down onto the rocks below.

Maglor kneeled beside his father and slowly helped him pull Maedhros up. Then Feanor turned to the copse where Fingon and Turgon were hidden and seemed to see through the very trees.

"Run!" Fingon hissed, taking the weapons from his brother and assuming command, trying not to think of what he had just seen. "Get out of here!"

"What about you?" Turgon whispered back.

"I'm staying here, I will distract them, pretend there was only one of us," Fingon replied, his voice steady but thin, as a great commander facing a route.

"No, I won't leave you! I'll be the one to stay, I want to be the one to stay."

"I think not. You can barely stand the thought of Feanor - to face him with your hands tied behind your back would be enough to break you. Besides," Fingon said, pushing him out, his frantic movements belying his reasonable tone, "if Maedhros lives he will not let them harm me badly."

And if he does not live, Fingon thought, watching his brother leave, then what further harm can they do me?

Alone, Fingon fought to contain the tears that had not even threatened to spill while he focused on saving his brother. Now, the sight of Maedhros, staggering, falling, flashed over in his mind, a double image set over the sight of the furious guards searching the clearing.

As Fingon waited in surrender for Feanor's guard to take him, he was too lost in the joy of knowing he had not been betrayed at Losgar and despair for the wounds of the one who had been so loyal, to feel any sort of fear for himself.

***

by Shauna


	8. Chapter 7: The Hostage of Feanor

Part 7

In the camp of the People of Fëanor, there had been neither bed nor tent for the eldest son of Nolofinwë. His feet hurt. His head hurt. His legs hurt. His wrists hurt most badly of all, and he couldn't be sure if they were not bleeding because of the overly tightened rope. 

They had attached him to a post in the middle of the camp. It was early at night when they found him. They had first taken his weapons away, and then secured him to the post, in such a way that even his arms hurt from the uncomfortable position. Then they left him there. They would probably kill him the next morning, Fingon thought bitterly, depending on if Maedhros lived or not. And, he realised, even if Maedhros lived, he would be too weak from the blood loss to know what his father was doing to his former friend. So it really mattered not. He would be dead before noon. 

Unless, of course, the twisted paths of Fëanor's mind found some other use for his life, as in keeping him as a hostage, which was really hardly better.

He had tried to keep composure at the beginning, when passing people could still see him. Out of pure, useless vanity and pride. No. They wouldn't have the pleasure to see the son of Fingolfin broken, pained, hurting because of them. He wouldn't have allowed that. So he stood straight, or tried to, as much as that bearing let the bounds cut into his flesh all the sharper. 

It meant nothing.

Nothing at all.

He would be dead before noon, and he wouldn't even know if Maedhros lived or not. 

Darkness had fallen, and the people gone back to their tents for a night of rest, before the mad race of the morrow could begin again. Fingon bit his lower lip. He wondered if his father and brother would sleep tonight. Probably not. And Aredhel it was not really fair. Turgon and Aredhel were the ones to have devised the plan. They had wanted Fëanor dead. They had wanted the downfall of the House of the Kinslayers. Of course. Then they had to begin by him, their own brother, for was he not a Kinslayer also, who fought at Alqualondë, and drenched his sword in blood? 

There was one guard sitting there a dozen of feet away from him. Lazily, his brain asked itself why Fëanor had deemed it useful to post anyone there. He had no weapon, and even if they had left him those, hardly any means to use them, bound that he was. And who, in that camp of enemies, would attempt to rescue him? Maedhros was lying on a bed, balanced between life and Death. Maedhros who had stood up for him at Losgar, who had been his best friend, his brother, who had not betrayed him even if it meant opposing his father, Maedhros who would live or die by his fault. 

Turgon's shot would maybe not have devied if he, Fingon, had not tried to stop him from firing it. Which was better? Knowing Fëanor dead, and he and his brother both doomed to Death, and probably torture? Not knowing if Maedhros would die, and he, only he himself tied up here in the middle of their camp, waiting for Death, and submitted to a torture much harsher only by just not knowing whether his cousin lived? 

He had abandoned the proud stance as soon as there was no one left to see him, and hung his head as low as the ropes would permit it. They tore at his flesh, but I really mattered not. Was Fëanor that intricate that he had known that nothing could torment him further than dying without knowing his best friend's fate? 

He had closed his eyes, and tried to wander into sleep as far as the pain would permit it. 

~ 

Something was happening. 

He did not exactly notice what at the beginning. The guard had shifted his position, standing up. 

A sound that maybe was not there reached his ears.

It was regular, as the sound of someone walking, but so light as to be hardly perceptible.

He opened his eyes into a slit, though not budging from his earlier position. 

Someone was walking. The silhouette clad in the long, black cloak was barely seen in the darkness. It seemed like a black hood also covered its head. 

Fingon could not see its face. 

It walked up to the guard.

An exchange of whispers took place, though every word of it came clearly to Fingon's ears in the stillness of the night. It could hardly be called a conversation, so short it was.

"Everything alright?"

The guard stood straight.

"Yes, my Lord."

"Good."

Then the hooded figure brandished a kind of weapon from under its dark cloak, and the guard slumped to the ground in a heap, whether dead or not Fingon could not tell.

He smiled. 

Was he having hallucinations in his dreams or what?

Immediately, as fast as one could run without making a sound, the figure flew —it really seemed so, with the cloak floating around it- to the post where he was attached, and pulled him into a quick embrace. 

"Did they hurt you badly?"

He felt the breath slightly tickling his ear. So it was not a dream. His smiled widened a little. 

"No, I think I'm still in shape. Who are you?"

He could still not see the face, but the voice he held for too familiar not to be recognised. And yet he could not bring back the name from the depths of his memory. It should not be that hard 

The figure bent to his knees, and proceeded to cut the ropes that bound his feet. 

"Who are you, kind stranger?"

But no, he was not a stranger. 

"The eldest sons of Fëanàro and Nolofinwë were best friends back in the Days." He muttered through clenched teeth. "They were half-cousins, but they were like brothers. Often I saw them laughing and playing together like children by the little stream that flows in that meadow in the woods." 

Fingon's heart went _twang_. This man knew about their secret rendezvous place?

The figure was finished with his feet, and stood again to take care of his wrists, all the while continuing to whisper.

"Do not ask me to believe you came all the way from Nolofinwë's host just to kill your best friend. I don't know what you're doing here, and I don't want to know. Or rather, I have a very good guess. Hand wavered at the last moment, hey?"

Fingon found his hands were free, and caressed his wrists, finding that, indeed, the bounds had cut in them so deeply that the flesh there was not merely cut, but torn. 

"Does Maitimo live?"

"We do not know yet."

There was hardly repressed reproach in the stranger's voice.

He was, on the other hand, getting more and more suspicious of the other elf's identity.

"Who are you?"

"Matters not. Go now. Try to be silent. There will be guards. Here, take this sword. It is not yours, but it was all I could find."

Fingon reached for the weapon, but never touched it. 

He looked up, smiled, shook his head, and leant back on the wooden post.

The elf nearly jumped from frustration.

"Take it and go! What in Mandos are you waiting for?"

Fingon grinned resignedly, and held up a finger.

"I can see what you cannot. It's right behind you. It's walking up."

__

Dear Macalaurë, he nearly added. He realised it was not easy to go around incognito when you had a voice like Fëanor's second son's.

Maglor froze. Even if he could not see it, Fingon just felt the already pale face turn green. 

Fëanor put a casual hand on his son's shoulder.

"Now, now. We were speaking about treason?" The anger, or whatever it was, made his voice tremble, though it didn't directly show.

The sword clattered to the ground.

"Pity it is you who will be my heir if Maitimo dies."

Fingon still smiled. It could only mean one thing. It would soon be over. Maybe in his wrath Fëanor would even let slip information about Maedhros' state. 

Maglor reached up, and pulled his hood down with almost steady hands. His face was set.

Fëanor turned to him with a severe look.

"Go back to the tent. We will talk about this later."

Fingon morbidly marvelled at Fëanor's authoritative voice and Maglor's little nod of the head, before he retreated. Was the emprise the Spirit of Fire had over his family really that strong? 

Maglor stepped back. Fëanor paid no attention to him anymore, but Fingon saw the blank look he shot him, and that he did not, in fact, go back to the tent.

"Findekàno son of Nolofinwë. Why did you not run after you shot your arrow?"

Fingon clenched his teeth, and tried to maintain level gaze with his half-uncle.

A silence passed. 

He could not hold the question back anymore.

"Does Maitimo live?"

In the blink of an eye Fëanor was on him, shouting. "Do not dare speak his name!"

Fingon swallowed.

"Does he live?"

Another silence, and then Fingon was compelled to lower his eyes. 

Fëanor smirked, and began nervously pacing in front of him.

"What exactly is your father trying to do?"

Fingon stared at him blankly. 

"I think the same thing as you."

The Spirit of Fire threw his head back and issued a hollow laugh.

"Little brother So, after all these years, he still thinks he can beat me, huh?"

Fingon thought it wise not to answer. Behind Fëanor's back, Maglor was making frantic signs at him, but he could not understand. 

"And pray how does he plan to best me on that ground?"

Fingon was bewildered. Fëanor was actually trying to extract information from him about his father's plans? 

He stayed bewildered just a moment too long to think up an answer, and Fëanor was in front of him again, staring him in the eye. 

"And how could it have suited him to have his own eldest son come to my camp and shot my eldest son? He wanted to get rid of my heir?"

The younger elf suddenly felt a wave of rage wash him from the inside. 

"That was not in the plan." he spat.

"So you did that on your own accord?"

"Yes."

Fëanor's nose was getting uncomfortably close to his own, and he leant back as far as he could.

"You came to kill your best friend and cousin?" He shook his head in mock pity, though the fury still transpired through the thin layer of dignity. "How disappointing for a son of my noble, wise little brother"

That kind of thing should not be allowed! Fingon's mind screamed frantically at him. Keep control! Keep control! 

But it was to no account.

"Look, here." He struggled to keep a straight face. "I did not want to kill him. The arrow was shot at you." It was probably not a wise thing to say. But at the moment, he found he could not care less whether he died or not. He would probably. Then the best way was still to make it all end quicker. "It was you I wanted to kill. And I did it on my own accord. My father knew nothing of my act. He would not have approved. I came alone, because I was young and stupid and I wanted you dead. My hand was not steady. The arrow went stray. I am sorry for my friend. I am sorry I did not succeed in taking you down."

Fëanor looked at him with surprise. Tentatively, Maglor took two steps forwards. 

Aha, thought Fingon, that was not what you expected me to say 

But Finwë's eldest son's answer was clear and, he had to admit, quite hard to contradict.

"Nolofinwë's eldest son was considered one of the best archers of Eldamar. Do not tell me his aim was untrue at such a close range." 

Fingon breathed in deeply.

"Will he live?"

"It is not the matter at hand now."

Fëanor reached for his sword. With his left hand. With horror, Fingon realised for the first time that his half-uncle's right arm was severed above the wrist. The sleeve had however been managed in a way so that it would not show too much. 

It also was not his sword he was reaching for. With a heavy-hearted feeling, Fingolfin's son saw that it was, in fact, his own. 

Incidentally, it was the first sword Maedhros had made for him back in the not so blessed days. [1]

The sharp blade was pressed onto his neck.

"You think you still deserve to live, after what you did to my son?"

Fëanor swung the blade. It stood still for a fraction of a second, high in the air. Fingon's mind raced for one last time. Fëanor was right. He had deserved it for what he had done to his friend. 

He should not live if Maitimo died.

His eyes shut as he accepted the coming blow.

"Father!"

He heard Fëanor roar in outrage, as Maglor's voice sounded high and clear in the silent night. His eyes flew open. He saw two hands desperately holding Fëanor's arm back, but yet too weak to do so for more than one mere moment. Instinctively, he ducked. 

The top of the wooden post came down, neatly cut. 

"Canafinwë!"

Fëanor did not attempt to swing the blade again. Instead, he stared at his second son with the expression of someone who had just had a vision of Manwë in a purple night-dress dancing a polka with Morgoth. 

Maglor stared back, looking as equally horrified as his father by what he had just dared to do, his face grey and lips bloodless, eyes wide with terror. He stumbled backwards, and would have fallen if Fëanor had not dropped the sword he was still holding to catch his arm and steady him. 

In the same time, the head of the eldest House shot Fingon a murderous glare that probably did not bide good. However, the latter was past the point of caring. He had almost accepted the fact that he was to die a moment ago. He had renounced life in the name of his sins towards his kin and friend. And now, he was still standing here, alive and well. It was something short of a miracle. He could only stare, still disbelieving, and wondering what exactly had happened to him.

Maglor inhaled deeply, recovering from his passing weakness, and looked up.

"I think maybe Maitimo would want to have his say in this." He glanced at Fingon pointedly. "If he lives. If he doesn't, than don't expect me to stand for you again."

~ 

1- Based on Deborah's _A Very Fire_ story, where Maedhros forges Fingon's first sword.

This part by Le Chat Noir. 


	9. Interlude: And I Alone Am Escaped to Tel...

Interlude: And I Alone Am Escaped to Tell Thee  
  
  
  
The water had been gray and grim for long days.  
  
Cirdan sighed, rising from where he kneeled to dip long fingers in the waves eating about the sands of the Falas. Many days. Storms and rain, and huge waves rising, but crashing deep in the ocean and not in the shore, as if held back and roaring in frustration. Osse was not pleased - as it were, he was probably furious.  
  
Which was not such a rare thing when the excitable Maia was concerned, and yet.  
  
And yet.  
  
The memory of tall, dark forms, terrible and beautiful, strange, with light in their eyes and swords in their hands, rattled the lord of the Falathrim from whatever peace the sea had to offer.  
  
He raised his eyes from the waves, and smiled slightly.  
  
"My Lord Osse," he said, attempting a light tone.  
  
He was answered by a violent splash of cold water, knocking him down to the sand and holding him there as if it was a great hand, crushing the air out of his lungs, rendering him utterly helpless as he stared up, stunned. Osse, clad in his slender Elflike form as he was, stood upon the wave, dark fire mingling with water in his eyes.  
  
"Fool! Ignorant child! Traitor!!" the Maia roared in a voice like the crashing of waves. "How could you help them?!"  
  
The Elf's eyes grew wide, and he tried to answer, but the water still held him with force unimaginable. He could not breath. He looked upon the great being with begging eyes, the deep blue of the sea, and at last, he felt a quavering in the water hand.  
  
The water crashed down and retreated back to the sea, and Osse fell onto the shore and remained collapsed there, sobbing rivers into the sand.  
  
Shocked to the very core of his being, Cirdan did not even stop to catch his laboring breath. With infinite care and reverence, he knelt by the Maia, and gently, softly, dared to speak.  
  
"My lord."  
  
Slowly Osse looked up at him. He did not seem to mind being revealed so in his weakness. His eyes hardened when he looked upon the Elf, just for a moment, then rage shattered before grief.  
  
"Yet you live." he muttered - and his form crashed into a great wave, roaring as it returned to the sea. Now he rose over the water in a terrible visage, and spoke in a fell voice, raging as the storm, rising as thunder, words with dread to match their sound.  
  
"Cirdan of the Falas! Alqualonde is in ruin! Slain lie the Teleri by the hands of their kin - their kin who came now to Middle Earth - and fate touches not the one responsible! I was bidden not harm him - you were not!" With every word the water rose up, up to cover the newborn sun, up to hide the vastness of the ocean, a great shadow cast upon the golden shore. Clouds rose and wind, the smell of salt becoming bitter, the water dreadful cold, the rage in the eyes of the Maia like a spear of sheer ice. "Let the Noldor kinslayers know true vengeance!"  
  
And without another sound, he was gone, raising up the water in rage, foam splashing white, the sunset painting the waves red. Alone on the sand he left Cirdan, who sat there for a long, long time.  
  
And when at last he rose, one thought lingered in his mind, dark, mournful.  
  
Doriath.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Deep are the dungeons of Morgoth Bauglir, in the north of the world under the dread mountains. Tall are his dark spires, and black as night is his realm, and silent are his thoughts that are like poison slow and wicked, and his sight pierces time and the vastness of the world.  
  
Now he saw the dispute among his enemies, the anger, the hate, and rejoiced.  
  
All as planned, all perfectly as planned.  
  
At the feet of his dark throne, he remained constantly aware of the cool, focused presence of the greatest of his servants. Sauron the Maia was weaving some spell, humming as he did to concentrate the raw, wild magic he wielded. He was clad in his fairest form, as often was his perverse pleasure to do in the ugliest, darkest depths of Angband; charcoal-black hair streamed a bit past his shoulders, smooth and bright, his eyes sparkled silver, and his frame was beautifully gentle, almost childlike. The combination of that, the quiet humming, and the blackness all around was spellbinding, and Sauron knew it very well.  
  
"Cease that senseless music," the dark Vala snapped in a voice deep and dark as the Void.  
  
Sauron looked up; in this form, he looked very innocent while doing so, and wounded. He stopped humming with quiet indignation.  
  
"Forgive me, my lord. I merely wished to watch," he said in a low, purring tone.  
  
Morgoth did not spare him one look. Burning eyes remained fixed on the empty distance.  
  
"And what have you seen?" he asked emotionlessly.  
  
Sauron gave a slight shrug. "Elves, quarreling thoughtlessly over their petty grudges. Letting that one Feanor live was a stroke of genius, if I may say. They would kill each other over the right to kill him."  
  
A slight grin played upon Morgoth's dread face. Sauron did not miss it. Smiling in the cover of the dark, he allowed himself to speak on.  
  
"An interesting creature, that one is. I would watch him more closely if I could - which of course, I cannot, without my lord's permission, and yet."  
  
"You ask my permission?"  
  
The Maia looked innocent. "Would my lord grant it?"  
  
A while the dark lord sat in thought, but Sauron had time. He hummed quietly to himself.  
  
"If you wish it," Morgoth at last said slowly.  
  
Sauron's eyes lit up even as his shape slowly changed to resemble an Elf more closely. He gave the obligatory low bow with a sly smile, and with a laugh, turning, marched out of the dark chamber, out into the friendly darkness, humming his magical tune all the while.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
By Joan Milligan 


	10. Chapter 8: Let There be Justice

****

Quenta Nárion, Chapter 8: Let There be Justice... 

In the twilight, Nerdanel sat before her tent in the Noldorin encampment near the shores of Lammoth, staring at one of the wheels of her wain without seeing it. She was disturbed, and for more than one reason. Her husband was a traitor to his kin. There was no way she could look at the deed done at Losgar and tell herself he was not. All the fëar of those who perished on the Ice would speak against him in the Houses of the Dead. Yet he remained her spouse. She had said her vows before the One, and heard his; they had joined in love and she had borne him seven sons. Seven sons he had robbed from her. They had parted as enemies, he calling her a puppet of the Valar and a faithless wife, she in silence, but thinking he had at last crossed the line separating the furor of creativity from the craze of madness. She knew that crossing; she, too had seen it lie ahead. But whereas for him it had been as narrow as a knife's edge, for her it was as wide as a sea. 

And yet...

Did she still love him?

The question had pursued her all the way across the Helcaraxë; thoughts are too fast to shake off. But the answer was still out of reach. Nor did she try to find it any longer since the other thing had begun to nag at her. A sense of foreboding on the brink of knowledge. It had smothered her earlier, hopeful belief that everything might take a turn for the better yet. 

She had tried to call up the images of her sons in a song, the evening after the first sun, wondering how they would look in its light. But only six images had formed. One of the twins was missing; one Ambarussa only she beheld, his face torn with agony as not even Maedrhos' was. What could it portend? How true could foresight be, when it had proved false before by claiming Fëanor dead while he was alive? Did it show one's wishes? Did it show one's fears? 

She did not wish to fear the worst.

She could not help but fear it.

Abruptly she rose, fists clenched; better to turn her mind to some useful task. 

It was then, that she was requested to join Fingolfin in his pavilion.

Her half-brother-in-law was seated on a makeshift throne of logs and furs. Most of his face was hidden in shadows; the single lamp hanging at the entrance of the pavilion only lit his mouth. It was grim and thin. Nerdanel did not need foresight to guess something bad had occurred. 

Fingolfin was not alone; his daughter was present too. Aredhel seemed angry rather than grim and hardly answered Nerdanel's greeting. 

'There is no way to put this mildly,' Fingolfin began as Nerdanel sat down on a spare log, thinking incongruously that perhaps she should take to carving furniture. 

'Then put it harshly,' she replied.

'As you wish. My sons have tried to shoot your husband.'

It took some time before this sank in. Vainly she tried to make a connection with the sense of dread clouding her mind. 'Shoot?' she repeated.

'Shoot, yes. From hiding. My sons have become assassins. My sons' - he stressed the word _my_' - have turned craven.' She had not thought his mouth could become thinner than it was, but apparently it could. In the shadows, the white of his eyes glinted with cold fury.

'But they did not achieve their purpose,' she said, for so much was obvious. 

'They failed.' 

Somehow, he made it sound as if that was the worst, the most unforgivable thing of all. It was, Nerdanel thought, a good thing to know how Fingolfin truly felt about his half-brother, despite his oath of allegiance before the thrones of the Valar. He would keep it; no doubt as to that, for such was his nature - but the 'full brother in heart' had become a mockery after the Ice. 

'How do we know this?' she inquired, keeping her voice even.

'Turgon returned to our camp and told everything to Aredhel.' He did not look at his daughter. 'But Fingon was caught. The arrow went astray and -' He fell silent. 

Unable to put it harshly, after all. 'Go on!' Nerdanel cried. 'Say it. The arrow slew my youngest son instead of - him.'

Both Fingolfin and his daughter were stunned. Aredhel recovered first. 'Your eldest son,' she said, shaking her head in bewilderment. 'But he was not dead when Turgon managed to get away.'

Maedhros. Wounded, perhaps dying. Hearts were obnoxious things. At the moment, hers was pounding madly and she had to breathe deeply to prevent it from bursting the confines of her chest. She herself say: 'Why is Turgon not here?' 

'He left,' replied Aredhel. 'Where, I do not know.'

'Who fired the arrow?' Nerdanel asked.

'He did not tell me.'

She was lying. And Fingolfin knew it, too. 'You had better be honest.' His voice was dangerously soft. 

'I will not,' his daughter spat. 'I do not know what you will do to him should you lay hands on him, father, but I fear for him. I love my brothers. Fingon may be dead already. Turgon must live.' Turgon, who was her favourite brother and would ever remain so, be he murderer, coward or traitor. That much was obvious. 

'What do you take me for?' Fingolfin said.

'An ambitious man. An ambitious father. One who cannot stomach the fact that his son failed to take down his prey!' she cried. 

'Thank you for telling us who the archer was,' Nerdanel said.

Aredhel cast her a murderous glance - and stormed from the pavilion.

Fingolfin immediately called in the two guards flanking the entrance. 'Go after my daughter,' he told them. 'Follow her wherever she goes, but take care not to be seen if she enters the woods. If you see her speaking to... her second brother, mark the place and report back to me. Should she merely return to her tent, bring her back here, willing or nilling. And bring me my granddaughter as well.'

Idril? Why Idril? Nerdanel did not know that she liked his tone. When the guards bowed and trotted away, Fingolfin turned to her, his taut, mask-like face fully lit now. She could not appreciate his expression either. 'Nerdanel,' he began. 'Sister.'

The way he looked at her was not at all brotherly. 'What do you want from me?' 

'I know this is not easy - but you are the only one who can do it. Would you go to Fëanor's camp and tell him... tell him that I will do everything to find and capture the perpetrator of this hideous deed, and hand him over to be tried. That I would aid my brotherin this regardles of how he has dealt with my eldest son. Would you do that for me?' He eyed her with a strange hunger. 

__

Do not do this to me, she thought. 'I will go anyway,' Nerdanel replied. 'You seem to forget that the victim is my eldest son.' 

He had the grace to look ever so slightly ashamed.

She was about to leave when Fingolfin's youngest son Argon came barging into the pavillion. 'Father!' he shouted, breathless, flushed, his dark hair bristling with excitement. 'Father! We can engage in battle soon! Our scouts have sighted an enemy force heading towards us from the Northeast!' 

***

Aredhel ceased running, looking up at the dark blue sky. Isil, the new lamp of the night, rose above the trees. It was a strange light, for at first it had been round like Anar, the eye of the day. But unlike Anar, it grew smaller every night, nor did it always rise in the same place. She wondered if it was being removed from the heavens again, or if this was Morgoth's doing. Well, let the Valar of whatever ilk have their way; the brave people of the Noldor could do without such a wayward thing.

Brave. She bit her lip, thinking of her father's words. _My sons have turned craven_. He preferred not to understand it. Of course they could not afford to be nobly but foolishly heroic as long as that accursed traitor was alive. Turgon would surely return to the other camp to make a new attempt. And she would join him - but for her promise to watch over Idril.

She almost cried out in surprise when a hand descended on her shoulder. Turning, she saw that her father's guards had come for her. 

Glad as she was that she had not rushed headlong into the woods and led them straight to her brother, Aredhel allowed them to take her back to Fingolfin's pavilion. It was then her ears caught the first rumours of the Enemy's approach.

__

By: by Finch


	11. Chapter 9: Times of Transition

****

Quenta Nárion Chapter 9 - Times of Transition

Idril sat in front of her father, hands clutched tightly in the mane of the black horse. She had been so scared when the cloaked man had killed the two guards who were leading her to see her Grandfather. She had never seen so much blood before, and had been far too frightened to scream. But it was over quickly, and then the man had grabbed her, and Idril had seen his face, hidden under the hood of her cloak. It was her father! He put his finger to his lips, and Idril had nodded her understanding. And then the two of them had crept carefully out into the dark woods, where the horse had been standing tied.

"Come on, dear heart," her father had said as he lifted her up onto the horse's broad back. "We're going for a long ride."

"Where are we going?" she asked as her father mounted behind her.

"South, love. I'm taking you away to a place where you'll be safe."

"Is Aunt Aredhel coming, too, Daddy? And Uncle Fingon?"

"No, they're not coming now. Perhaps later."

"What about Grandfather?"

"He can't come now either. Now hush - we have to be very quiet. There are bad people who live in these woods, and we don't want them to see us, do we?"

Idril certainly did not wish to be found by the bad people her Daddy was so afraid of, and so she had remained very quiet. And now here they were, galloping fast under the dark starlit skies. She didn't know where they would end up, but as long as her father was with her, she knew everything would be all right.

* * * * * * *

__

I'm sorry, brother, but I had no choice. May the Valar watch over you while you are in the hands of that monster Fëanor. I swear, I will find allies to help free you, or avenge you!

When Aredhel failed to meet him at their designated rendezvous place, Turgon had known that something had gone terribly wrong. He'd managed to disguise himself by stealing some old and weather-beaten clothes, of a sort the House of Finwë would ordinarily never deign to be seen in, and had carefully moved around the camp, saying nothing, listening intently. Rumors had swirled around him, thick as mist. The sons of Fingolfin had attempted to kill Fëanor. No, the sons of Fingolfin had in fact succeeded in killing Fëanor. Nonsense, they hadn't killed anyone, but they have shot one of Fëanor's own sons. No, they've killed one of the sons. No, it was Fëanor who had killed one of Fingolfin's sons. I hear Fingolfin's own daughter and granddaughter were being held prisoners under guard. Fingolfin has himself given orders that his sons are to be captured and handed over to Fëanor himself for punishment. No, Fingolfin is going to execute his sons himself. Nonsense, Fingolfin would never do anything of the kind - and certainly not when such a strong enemy force was fast approaching!

That last rumor had caught his attention. An attacking force would provide just the distraction he would need for his plan to succeed - and also insure that his father would soon be too preoccupied to pursue him far. Turgon did not deceive himself - he knew that, though his father loved him dearly, Fingolfin would have no hesitation in handing even his own son over to satisfy his ideals of "justice" - even though Turgon's only crime had been to attempt to achieve real justice himself. Justice for all those his crazed and murdering half-uncle had doomed to death when he'd burned the ships. Justice for those he'd condemned to freeze on the Ice. Justice for his poor, lost Elenwë, and for Idril, now motherless.

And justice for all the deaths at Alqualondë - for had it not been Fëanor's forces who had begun that quarrel? Had it not been Fëanor's people who had started the Kinslaying, murdering the Teleri who had been helpless to defend themselves?

The Kinslaying... Turgon smiled in satisfaction. He regretted deeply that he had been unable to rescue Aredhel; her tent had been too heavily guarded. But the Valar had smiled upon a father's pain, and he was able to win his daughter's freedom. And now the two of them were riding south, in search of the one Elf that Turgon could be sure would support him in his quest. 

For did not Olwë, King of the Teleri, have a brother remaining on these shores?

__

Yes, Turgon thought, _the brother of the murdered Teleri King will be **very** interested in aiding my cause, of that I can be sure. I do not yet know where Elwë can be found, but I will never stop searching until I find him and tell him of his kin's death at Fëanor's hands. Then, Spirit of Fire, your flame will be snuffed out by the cold winds of a brother's grief. And may Mandos torment you until the end of Ëa!_

Turgon urged his tiring mount on, southward, ever southward. Soon, he was sure, he would find his ally - and his vengeance. 

* * * * * * *

His chest was on fire, and each inhalation was an effort. Maedhros had felt his chest burn before, from supreme exertion while racing with his brothers through the fields and woods of Aman, but that sensation had been fleeting, ceasing within moments of his stopping to catch his breath. This steady, relentless burning was altogether different. Every ragged gasp plunged a knife into his side. And he could not seem to catch his breath no matter how hard he tried. 

He was very tired now. Dimly, he was aware of movement, sounds - were those voices? Yes. They sounded familiar, but in his exhaustion he could not concentrate well enough to place them, and he no longer had strength enough to open his eyes. He felt a hand brush his hair and forehead, heard soft whispered words. "Russandol, I love you." The voice sounded so sad!

What had happened to him? It was hard to think. He tried to concentrate, to remember... Makalaurë, yes - he had gone looking for Makalaurë. His little brother must have slipped away again, that was why he had been searching for him. Had he found him? Father and Mother would be angry with him if he hadn't. "You are the oldest, Russandol," Father always said, "and it's your responsibility to look after your younger brothers." Maedhros couldn't remember if he'd found Makalaurë or not. He didn't want his baby brother to get hurt because he'd failed to find him, but he was simply too exhausted to move. _Father will have to look for you today,_ he thought, _because I don't think I can. I'm sorry, filit. I know he'll scold you. But you're still far too little to be running off on your own._

It was becoming very hard to breathe. He felt like he was drowning; reflexively, he coughed, and tasted something metallic in his mouth. The room had become very cold, and Maedhros was dimly aware that he was shivering. He felt someone lifting him up, supporting him, felt his head leaning against an unseen shoulder. The drowning sensation receded slightly, but he still couldn't get enough air. His chest was so heavy. The pain was fading now. _So tired,_ he thought, _I have never felt so tired. If I could only rest for a while..._

And suddenly there was no more pain, and he felt light again, free. A deep, compelling sensation welled up inside him, calling to him. _Come to me,_ it seemed to say, _you know the way. It is time for you to return home._ In his relief, Maedhros relaxed and permitted himself to be swept away on its tide, allowing his fëa to begin the journey to the Halls of Mandos, where he would finally be able to rest.

(this chapter written by Ithilwen)


	12. Chapter 10: In the Wilderness

He watched with growing alarm as Maedhros breathing labored, and dark blood began to course down the corners of his mouth. Maglor called to him, demanding him to come back. He grasped his brother's hand, trying to stay the flickering fea. 

"Come back, Maitimo, it is not your time yet, come back, your brothers need your, the Noldor needs you. Come back Nelyafinwe Maitimo, would you abandon us?"

He shouted his name, but it was as if Maedhros was already somewhere else. The bright eyes closed. Dimly amidst the panicked confusion, he heard an apology, and then all was dreadfully still.

For the first time, Maglor's voice failed him for despite his pleas his brother did not stay. The hand turned cold, and he did not stir. Gone. Sons of Feanor, each beside a threshold of life were as statues inside the tent. A flicker of a figure passed the corners of Maglor's stinging eye. Something fell to the ground and shattered.

His brother is dead. His brother is dead. Murdered. Coming out of his shock and realizing all this as dour reality Maglor's sight blurred and he wept on Maedhros chest, feeling the useless tears sliding down his cheeks. They say beauty makes one cry, his voice made people cry because it was beautiful, but he had never cried before, because he always knew that there were hopes, that perfection was never achieved, that somehow, some way, all has not ended yet, there was his voice, and as Elda, he would never have to fear for it. But the body of Maedhros seemed to mock him, the melancholy beauty of his face will never be alive again despite all the promises to the Firstborn, it had been cut short, prematurely ended…Maglor took a sword and headed out to find Fingon.

The stones beneath his boots crackled with each step but his sensitive ears pounded and he heard nothing. Musician and artist he was, but he was also Feanorion and brother of the murdered Maedhros.

Someone else was there before him. Caranthir's dirk was imbedded in Fingon's shoulder. Eyes wide with pain, Fingon braced himself as the weapon pursued a perfect arc in the air, aiming to cleave him in two. So close now, this infinitesimal moment in time his last…

Metal met metal. Caranthir glared at who dared to stop him, and almost jumped when he saw Maglor's face, red splattered and grimy with tears.

Maglor's melodious voice floated with regret, "He is mine to kill brother, I wanted to free him, allow me the opportunity to right my wrong, I have seen the error of my ways, and bitterly have we paid for it." 

Reluctantly, Caranthir stepped back. Something in Maglor's tone and movement prompted a natural instinct in him to obey. He had never seen Maglor thus, never before had Maglor resembled Feanor so much. A terrible strength shone from him. The eerie glint in his eye had both frightened and reassured him. He will be no traitor.

Twice now, he had escaped seemingly imminent death, but he does not care anymore. The rope continued to tear into his skin, and knowing Maedhros was dead, he _should_ die, too. If not for him, all would have been different. Watching them claiming the right to execute him, Fingon laughed loudly, the sound ringing tightly in the nervous air, for he was possessed with the madness of one filled with grief and doom. 

Caranthir's presence and yet amidst threats and intimidations, he found that there was no accustomed reaction of great sadness, rather, it was as if he was suddenly emptied…and he had already left his hroa in order to meet the one he had inadvertently…

Fingon recognized the blade an inch in front of his face, glowing in a delicate blue; it was Maitimo's. Maglor is going to kill him with Maedhro's sword! Ironically fitting, he thought, I practiced with that sword many a long years till Aqualonde. 

"False friend," Maglor hissed unbecomingly, the sound inimitably tragic, "His cold body lies in yonder tent, dead for the arrow wound dealt by you, Findekano! Cousin! Best-friend! My own foolishness blinded me, no longer." Maglor said, the sharp edge coming closer, "Though he died in agony, I shall give you a worthy death for the friendship you bore me in Aman faraway. What do you say murderer?"

"It would be an honor to die under the sword of one I respect." He replied. This is it, Fingon thought, soon dear friend, soon we shall meet again in Mandos. He closed his eyes; he would spare the Feanorions any indignity of having to close his eyes after he was dead.

Once more, the end.

"Stay Canafinwe." Feanor's voice echoed within his ears. Fingon's eyes shot open. Him? Here? Now?

Maglor paused, barely, "Russandol is dead." He said without looking back at his father, the blade still pushing into Fingon's vulnerable neck, "Your eldest son died."

"I know, Pityafinwe told me. Unfortunately this is not the murderer," Feanor said, ignoring the questioning glances, his voice dangerously calm. He quickly approached the post and laid a hand on Maglor's straining ones, pushing them down. 

Fingon's throat bled in a thin line as the blade tip coursed and finally left. 

Feanor was standing so close that he felt the heated breath. "Nelyafinwe Maitimo is in the Halls of Mandos. I know you, Findekano, I have often watched you with my son. You could not have missed as you claimed, you value your friend too dearly to kill his father. You are trying to protect someone. Who? Is it your brother? Is it your father? Who killed your friend Findekano? Who murdered my son? Tell me and you shall live. Else, you die in his place."

_Is the Spirit of Fire crying? Father and brother, you owe me._ Fingon closed his eyes again, wanting to cry himself yet could not, "Kill me if you will." He said coolly, unwilling to meet anyone's gaze. _I deserve _it for letting it happen. Am I not the murderer?

He felt a wrenching pain on his shoulder, yet for the fourth time, the expected escape did not come. He opened his eyes and felt someone staunching the wound. Feanor was but three paces away from him, still within a sword's reach. A part of him hoped that all would end, but he was still glad to find himself alive.

"He is our hostage and prisoner." Feanor declared to the curious gathering crowd, anger in their faces, his gaze burning with anger and a deep sorrow, "Send a message to his father, tell him," His voice choked, "Tell him that if the murderer of my son is not brought to me before three day's dawn, his son dies."

"Turkafinwe, go find Pityafinwe, the rest of you, gather our host."

~~~

Nerdanel saw Amras, weaponless, and running wildly, tripping, then running again, bounding like a frightened animal with his unbound red hair streaming behind.

Something was happening, she came unhindered, surely already far within the parameters of Feanor's camp. She hurried toward her son as Amras swerved and stopped in front of her, and then in a sudden movement, embraced her tightly within his arms. He did not speak.

"Where's your father?" She asked breathlessly, noting his dirty and scratched face, the furrowed brow, and the pursed and almost petulant lips.

"Killing Findekano." He replied, breaking into a wry smile, "Everyone is going to kill him now, but not I, there are far more important matters."

Nerdanel froze and freed herself, staring in shock into the distance. No..surely, surely not yet, not so foolish.…The forest was quiet other than the occasional call of birds, so she thought deeply, puzzling the pieces together until a hideous sound startled her.

Amras sat on the ground, screaming, laughing noisily as his hands pulled at the underbrush, startling a warren's nest, "Where is he? I know he must be here somewhere, or is it the river? He always hides inside the rivers. Then he disappears when I break the surface." He murmured then shouted, "Come out already, Telperion is waning, we'll be late again and father will scold us. Come out already, Ambarto, I lose, you win, we'll get Russandol in trouble again. Come out! Umbarto!"

Horrified, Nerdanel pulled at his arms, "Ambarussa, what are you doing? Get up! Take me to your father!" But he heeded her not, instead, he started throwing leaves and twigs at her, "Not yet, I still need to find Ambarto.I think he got lost again and I need to find him. It hurts every time he's too far, and now it hurts terribly mother." His eyes cleared, "Mother, whence do you come? Tell me Ambarto is still in Aman, father didn't bring him, I know you asked him not to. Why didn't he come with you? It hurts, I'm sure it hurts him too."

"Where is he? What happened?" She demanded, terror filling her as she drew her son close, feeling his whole body tremble violently.

"Smoke, so much smoke like the forges, we never liked the forges, we preferred following Tyelkormo inside the forests. There was so much smoke; we were choking. Fire, bright fire, at first, warm, then it burned. He betrayed us. And it hurts mother, everyday, the pain never stops and he doesn't care!"

"Sh..sh…quiet now.." Nerdanel tried to comfort her grown son, petting the familiar red hair.

"They are all dead," He wailed into her shoulder, "Dead!"

A biting darkness settled in her heart. "Who's dead, child? Who?" _Feanaro, what have you done? _

-Furius


End file.
